


Spock and the Yuletide Spirit

by WolfieJimi



Series: The Storytellers Association [2]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: Bajor, BelleStarr, Catastrophe, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Comedy, Crack, Cute, Emony Dax is there if you squint and look sideways, Everyone is wildly out of character anyway, F/M, Fluff, Funny, Jeeves and Wooster - Freeform, Love, M/M, Martha Landon's contribution to the Christmas special, Or Is he?, P.G. Wodehouse, Pre-Slash, Re-Telling, Re-write, Risa - Freeform, SO, Slash, Spock getting Jim out of trouble, Star Trek TOS, Starfleet version of Tuppy Glossop, StoryTellers's Association, Trill - Freeform, Trill version of Bobbie Wickham, adorkableness, barely there flirtation, but I guess this could be read as AOS if you want, hints of slash, plagiarisation, so hell read it with whoever you want in mind, sort of crossover but not really, star trek aos - Freeform, well not really slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 02:02:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16317038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieJimi/pseuds/WolfieJimi
Summary: Now, I know that you are straining at the leash to interrogate me on the circs leading up to Commodore Robert Wesley waking up in my bed on Christmas morning during my ill-fated sojourn to the famed leisure spot of Risa, but I feel the need to pre-empt the entire conversation by stating early on that it isn’t as bad as it looks...***A re-telling of P.G. Wodehouse's brilliant "Jeeves And The Yuletide Spirit", except in space, with Trill, and starring Spock and Kirk in all of their Christmassy glory. Pure, unadulterated crack. I am a crack dealer. Come here for all of your crack needs.***Standalone post of a story written for The StoryTeller's Association Christmas Special, by BelleStarr (and of course, ghost written by yours truly...)





	1. An Invitation

Now, I know that you are straining at the leash to interrogate me on the circs leading up to Commodore Robert Wesley waking up in my bed on Christmas morning during my ill-fated sojourn to the famed leisure spot of Risa, but I feel the need to pre-empt the entire conversation by stating early on that it isn’t as bad as it looks. When viewed comprehensively and from all angles, that is to say by taking a well-rounded look at the entire situash from a respectable distance and squinting a bit, I think it’s fair to conclude that things could have gone a lot worse. Spock, of course, is the one that I have to thank for the whole affair, with the exception, perhaps, of one or two actions taken by self early on. Yes, all things considered, what with Bajoran monasteries and scanners-on-sticks and women with entirely too-red hair running about the place causing trouble, I think old James T. Kirk came out of the whole thing pretty nicely, in the end.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

***

I received the invitation on Stardate 7562.48 - Earth date December 19th. It was damnably short notice, but opportunity waits for no man, as they say. Or is that time? Spock would know. I’ll have to ask him.

Anyway, the message dinged through on my PADD just after I had settled down to an evening meal with Mister Spock - chicken sandwich and coffee, followed by german double chocolate cake and more coffee. Bones would have had a headfit if he knew, but I wasn’t planning on telling him, so full steam ahead, I say.

The message contained some pretty good-ish news, as far as I was concerned, but I wasn’t confident Spock would share in that assessment. Nonetheless, fortified by caffeine and carbohydrates, I decided that now was as good a time as ever to break it to him. As Shakespeare said, if a thing needs to be done, you might as well get on with it and get it over with. Who am I to argue with Shakespeare? I knew Spock would be annoyed, even if he refused to show it, but hell, if a Vulcan can’t handle a little disappointment now and again, what hope is there for the rest of us?

“Oh, um, Spock,” I said.

“Yes, Jim?”

“We have received a communication from the Trill Ambassador Lady Vikjan. We met her at that conference on Andoria a few weeks ago, do you remember?”

“Indeed. Lady Vikjan was in attendance with her daughter, Ms Radere Vikjan.”

“Exactly. Well, yes, anyway, she has written to me inviting the both of us to her estate on Risa for her annual Yuletide festivities. It’s a pretty prestigious event, so I’m told.”

I paused, debating whether to plow on ahead or go with a gentler approach.

“Erm, so, right, yes, you should make sure to pack your best clothes. Lady Vikjan forbids uniforms of any kind at her parties. We’ll leave for Risa on the evening of the 21st to arrive on the 22nd. Oh, and you might want to pack some clothes for hiking, and swimming, too, if you’re up for it. I believe Lady Vikjan’s estate is situated right in between the beach and the mountains, and the weather is great on Risa at this time of year. Well, at all times of year, I suppose. That’s kind of the point of Risa. In any case, I expect we shall be there for the full extent of our shore leave.”

There was a pause. I could feel a frosty gaze being directed at me, but I focused deliberately on the chocolate cake and refused to look up to meet it.

“I thought I understood you to have said, Captain, that we were to take joint shore leave on Bajor immediately following the crew’s seasonal festivities.”

“I know. I did. But that was before Lady Vikjan’s invitation. So now that’s all off. Plans changed.”

At this point, the video communications link buzzed, tiding over very nicely what had threatened to be a rather uncomfortable moment. Spock, being closest to the monitor, answered it.

“Spock here. … Commodore Wesley? … Affirmative, the Captain is present.” Spock said to the monitor.

“Commodore Robert Wesley, Captain.” Spock said to me.

You know, every now and then I can’t help but feel that Spock is slipping. When on top form he would have, without hesitation, found some quick-ish means of bending the truth in some clever way in order to give Bob the impression I was unavailable to take his call, whilst never actually telling him that that was the case. Spock can be a wonder at strategic omission when he’s been on the Plomeek Soup. Today he’d ordered cucumber sushi.

And so, instead of providing me with an escape, he turned the monitor to face me. I shot him one of my steely glares, before fully rotating the monitor and plastering on one of my most charming smiles.

“Commodore Wesley. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I said.

“Don’t be a suck up, Kirk, it doesn’t suit you, and you aren’t any good at it.”

Quite the wrong sort of tone to adopt to a fellow after a long day at the office, but what can you do?

“Jim, Isi Vikjan tells me she has invited you to Risa for Christmas. Are you going?”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Isi is an old friend of mine, so be sure you are on your best behaviour. And keep your paws off of Radere! Her mother is practically Trill nobility, and I know your reputation, my lad. That’s all well and good, in the right time and place, but not with a classy girl like Radere. Personally I don’t know what these people see in you, but that’s the youth of today I suppose.”

Iwas in no mood for this sort of thing at the end of a vid-comm. In person, maybe, but at the end of a wire? No.

“Naturally, naturally.” I replied smoothly. “I always strive to conduct myself in a manner befitting a Starfleet Captain, and -”

“What? I can’t hear you. Come closer to the monitor. What did you say?”

“I said ‘Sure Thing, Bob’.”

“Oh? Well, make sure you do. And if you don’t, I’ll know about it. You know how I’ll know? Because I’m going to be there too! Ha! You weren’t expecting that, were you, son!”

And truthfully I must admit that his statement did surprise me, somewhat.

“What!”

“Don’t yell like that, you trying to deafen me?”

“Did you say that _you_ are going to Lady Vikjan’s party?”

“I did.”

“You don’t mean the Starfleet Annual December conference?”

“No I don’t mean the Starfleet Annual December conference, I mean Isi Vikjan’s party. That’s why I said I’m going to Isi Vikjan’s party, damn it!”

“Of course, of course.”

“Well then. I just wanted to give you a call, son, and bury the hatchet after that messy Daystrom business. No hard feelings. We can start a new slate, all in the Christmas spirit don’t you say, lad? And on that note, I actually wanted to discuss a little proposition with --“

But I had cut off the call. Shaken. That’s what I was. Shaken to the core.

Now, please stop me if you already know all of this; but in case you don’t know, I should probably give you the low down on old Bob Wesley. He’s a formidable old bastard, with an iron soul and the wit of a week-old haddock. He is by profession, as you may have guessed, a Commodore with the ‘Fleet. How it all came about behind the scenes I cannot tell you to this day, but I once, under his orders, had to turn control of my entire ship over to a psychopathic semi-sentient computer and allow it to start a pretend war. The fixture was scratched owing to events occurring which convinced the old boy that I had opened fire on his ship and nearly killed him and all of his crew. Even though we proved it was actually the maniacal computer going for multiple homicide and not yours truly, he has nonetheless ever since had my name saved in his contacts as “Captain Dunsel - ATTEMPTED MURDERER”, and he in mine as “Commodore Fathead Jerkwad”.

We were not, you might say, on the most cordial of terms. And to think that at one stage I was having to fight him off from trying to fast-track promote me to command of a starbase? The world of man is truly a violent and mercurial place.

And so it seemed to me that even at Christmas time, with all the Peace Across The Stars and Goodwill To All Men, Women, Non-Binaries, And Those Of Other Species To Which Such Definitions Are Inapplicable that there tends to exist knocking about at that season, a reunion with this bloke was likely to be tough going. If I hadn’t had more than one particularly good reason for wanting to go to Risa, I’d have called the whole thing off.

“Spock,” I said, with not inconsiderable aggravation, “Did you hear that? Bob Wesley is going to be at Lady Vikjan’s!”

“Quite, Captain. If you have finished with your meal, I will retire.”

Cold and haughty. No sympathy at all. None of that rallying-round spirit upon which I had come to rely. As I had anticipated, the information that we were not going to Bajor had roused him. Bajor housed some rather wonderful museums and libraries, not to mention ancient monasteries, and I knew Spock had been looking forward to going. As had I, if I’m completely honest. But sometimes some things have got to take precedence over other things, even if the first things are rather agreeable things, and the second things are half-agreeable, half-inconvenient things, if you catch my meaning.

In any case, we humans can wear the mask as well as any Vulcan when necessary, and so I ignored his lack of decent feeling masterfully.

“Thank you, Spock,” I said. “I’ll have to pass on chess tonight. We both need to pack.”


	2. A Complete Lack Of Sympathy

Relations continued pretty fairly strained all through the next two days. There was a frigid detachment in the way he read me sensor readings during Alpha shift, and he didn’t even bother to excuse himself from chess on the evening of the twentieth; he just didn’t show up.

Then, heading over to Risa in the shuttlecraft on the evening of the twenty-second, Spock was aloof and reserved. My attempts to make friendly conversation were met with the full force of his best Vulcan iciness. I spent the better part of the 8-hour long journey twiddling my thumbs and surreptitiously eying my stubborn shipmate whilst pretending to read journals. For his part, Spock did nothing more than make a show of adjusting dials and recalibrating sensors that were perfectly fine as they were. His manner didn’t warm up once we arrived at Isi’s estate, either. Before dinner on the first night of the visit, he played a particularly aggressive game of chess, and even placed his pieces on the board in what I can only call a marked manner.

The whole thing was extremely painful, and it seemed to me, as I lay in bed on the morning of the twenty-fourth, that the only step to take was to put the entirety of my situation before him, and to trust to his logic and reason to effect an understanding.

Aside from the off-colour circs with Spock, I was feeling pretty damn fine that morning. So far, everything had gone like a breeze. Our hostess, the effervescent Lady Isi Vikjan, was as charming and welcoming as she had been on Andoria. And as for her daughter Radere, well… She had welcomed me with a warmth which, I can’t deny, set the heartstrings quivering a bit. A real bright spark, that Dridie. We had rather hit it off at the conference on Andoria, and I was pleased to find that that _frisson_ hadn’t dissipated in the interim.

And even Bob Wesley, in the brief moments we had together, appeared to have let the Yule-tide spirit soak into him to the most amazing extent. When he saw me he smiled heartily, clasped my shoulders, and said “ _Ha! Young man!_ ” Not particularly eloquent, but better than “ _Ugh! Captain Dunsel!_ ” by any estimation, and my view was that it practically amounted to the sehlat laying down with the targ.

So, all in all, life at this juncture seemed pretty well all to the mustard, barring the altercash with Spock. To iron out the latter, I therefore decided to lay bare my soul to the chap in an attempt to smooth things over.

“Spock,” I said, as he appeared with the book I’d asked to borrow.

“Captain?”

“Touching on this business of our being here, I owe you an explanation. I think you have a right to know all of the facts.”

“Captain?”

“I’m afraid that scratching the Bajor trip has ticked you off a bit, Spock.”

“Vulcan’s do not get ‘ticked off’, Captain.”

“I am certain that in fact they do. And you have. You are. You have more tick than a grandfather clock. The heart was set on shore leave in the Alpha Quadrant’s second hottest monastic retreat, I know full well. I saw your eyes light up when I said we should arrange joint shore leave and go there together. You tilted your head to one side, and your fingers twitched. And now that there has been a change of programme, the iron has entered into your soul.”

“Captain, I assure you that -”

“Oh, yes it has. Don’t try to deny it. I’ve seen it. Very well, then, what I wish to impress upon you, Spock, is that I didn’t bring us here at random. It was through no heedless fancy that I accepted this invitation to Lady Vikjan’s. You might be surprised to learn that I have actually been angling for it for weeks, prompted by many considerations. In the first place, does one get the Yuletide Spirit at a spot like Bajor?”

“Does one require the ‘Yuletide Spirit’, Captain?”

“Certainly one does. Well, certainly some do. Certainly I am not averse to it. Well, regardless, Spock, regardless.  To get to the crux of the matter, Spock, the main reason for the necessity of our visit is as follows: It was imperative that I should come to Risa for Christmas, Spock, because I knew that Hugh Digby would be here.”

“Hugh Digby, Captain?”

“Yes, Hugh Digby. You may have observed loitering about the place like a bad habit, a sinewy and insidious young man with hair like an oil slick and a grin like a shark. That’s Digby, and I have been anxious for some time to get to grips with him. Listen to the facts, Spock, and tell me if I am not entirely justified in seeking to exact righteous vengeance upon this cad.’

I took a sip of coffee, for the mere memory of that man’s wrongs had shaken me.

“As you might have noticed, Digby and I are of around the same age. Well, we are in fact the exact same age, down to the very month, and we were at the Academy together. For a while, Digby and I were fairly good pals, him being the type of sharp-witted, rakish chap that I tended to lean towards in those days. But before long I came to see Digby’s true, chameleon-like colours, Spock. Behind that pretty face lay an ugly spirit, and that whiplike intellect was used more for making mischief and then extricating himself from the consequences of said mischief than it was for doing any good. Or, more pertinently for what follows, for any studying.

As time passed, Digby and I didn’t so much grow distant as openly hostile. As you know, I was a studious, serious young man at the Academy, determined on high achievement and superlative academic success. Digby’s steely determination rivalled my own, only his _raison d’etre,_  if that's the word I want, was having as much riotous fun as he could whilst coasting by on his mother’s name - his mother, I may have neglected to mention, is Vice-Chairman Annelise Digby; a pretty influential bird by any yardstick.

Not content on simply wrecking his own chances of graduating with honors, Digby seemed set on dragging me down with him. When I refused to accompany him on some of his more excessive binges, Digby got it into his head that I thought I was better than him. Egged on by a volatile cocktail of jealousy, competition, and rejection, he decided to prove to the world, and more importantly to me, that he was in fact the better chap.

Unfortunately for him, he was two years behind me by that point. His frivolity had cost him, Spock, and my academic over-achievements had shoved me far out of his league.  No matter how hard he worked, he couldn’t catch up with me. Every test, every paper, every thesis, I scored more highly. Come Final Exams, determined to see me licked, Digby engineered a calculated and, in it’s own way, quite genius plan to cheat his way to the top. That’s exactly what he did, Spock.

I know all of this because he confessed it to me. On the night of our graduation ceremony, both somewhat worse for wears, Digby started rehashing that, erm, _misunderstanding_ I had had with the Academy over the Kobayashi Maru. Digby found it extremely entertaining that I had gotten caught - not that I was trying to not get caught, I might add, which was entirely the point. As far as I was concerned there was nothing to catch me at, as I wasn’t cheating to begin with. It is rather easy, Spock, to catch a person who is not hiding anything. That’s what I told the Academy, and they eventually agreed, but Digby always persisted in believing that I -- but this is all beside the point. The point being that Digby’s hubris, always stronger than his good sense, pushed him to get in one last kick by telling me how he was so much smarter than me because I got caught cheating, and he didn’t

Ever since that moment, I have vowed to expose Hugh Digby for what he really is. I repeated all he told me to the Academy, of course, but without actual evidence it was always my word against his. And when a man’s word is repeated by his mother, who also happens to be the Vice-Chairman of the Academy, the word of anyone who speaks against that first man’s word had better have a damned good case for it, if you catch my drift.”

I took a breath.

“So there you have it, Spock. I had to come to Risa, because it gives me my best chance of finally getting the evidence I need to show Digby for the lazy, cheating, son of a bitch he really is.”

In spite of my rousing and heartfelt exposition, Spock’s expression remained placid. Cool, even. At a stretch, one might even say he looked positively unamused.

“I see.”

There was something in his manner which told me that even now he lacked complete sympathy and understanding. My impassioned speech had failed to compel the nobler aspects of his spirit and bring him back on side. Having fallen flat in this attempt, I decided to try attacking from another front: If the pursuit of justice couldn’t win him over, perhaps I could secure his loyalty through pursuits of the heart.

“Erm… Right. Well. Yes. That all being said, Spock, I do also have another reason for why I had to spend Christmas on Risa.” I said, diving into the old cup once more for a moment and bringing myself out wreathed in blushes. “The fact of the matter is… I’m in love, Spock.”

His infinitesimal head tilt told me all I needed to know. I had the man’s interest at last.

“In love, Jim?”

“You’ve met Ms Radere Vikjan?”

“... Yes.”

“Right then.”

There was a pause while I let it sink in. Spock shifted. The head straightened. The eyebrows  pinched. The ears took on a haughty aspect. I decided to press on regardless.

“During your stay here, Spock,” I said, “you will, no doubt, be thrown a good deal together with various of Ms Vikjan’s friends and associates. On such occasions, pitch it strong.”

“Captain?”

“You know what I mean. Tell everyone what a good guy I am. Mention my hidden depths; you know them better than anyone, after all. These things will get around. Dwell on the fact that I have a kind heart, and was runner up in the wrestling handicap in the inter-ship tournament this year. A boost is never wasted, Spock.”

“Undoubtedly, Captain. But --”

“But what?”

“Well, Captain --”

“I wish you wouldn’t say ‘Well, Captain’ in that accusing tone of voice. It hurts, Spock. But tell me. What’s on your mind?

“I do not wish to impose --”

“Carry on, Spock. I am always glad to hear from you, always.”

“What I was about to remark, if it is not too bold, was that I would not consider Ms Vikjan to be a suitable --”

“Spock,” I said, rather coldly, “if you have anything to say against that lady, it had better not be said in my presence.”

“As you say, Captain.”

“Or anywhere else, for that matter. Why have you got such a bad attitude towards Radere?”

“Really, Captain…”

“Spock, I insist! This is a time for plain speaking. You have cast aspersions on Dridie’s character, and I want to know why.”

“It merely crossed my mind, Captain, that for a man of your description, Ms Vikjan is not a logical mate.”

“What do you mean by a ‘man of my description’?”

“Well, Captain --”

“Spock!”

“My apologies. The expression escaped me inadvertently. I was about to observe that I can only asseverate --”

“Only what?”

“I can only say that, as you have invited my opinion --”

“I didn’t.”

“I was under the impression that you wished to hear my views on the matter, Captain.”

“Oh? Were you now? Oh, well, fine. Let’s have them anyway.”

“Then briefly, if I may say so, sir, although Ms Vikjan is an accomplished woman --”

“There, Spock, you have finally started talking sense. Those eyes!”

“Yes, Captain…”

“That hair!”

“Very true, Captain.”

“Those tremendous spots!”

“Indeed, Captain --”

“That _espieglerie_ , if that’s the word I want?”

“The precise word, sir.”

“Alright. Carry on, then.”

“I grant Ms Vikjan the possession of all these desirable qualities. Nevertheless, considered as a matrimonial prospect for a man of your description, I cannot look upon her as a logical choice. In my opinion, Ms Vikjan lacks seriousness. She is volatile and frivolous. To qualify as Ms Vikjan’s spouse, a person would need to possess no small degree of stoicism and inherent cautiousness.”

“Exactly!”

“And I would always hesitate to recommend as a life’s companion anyone who dyes their hair such a _vivid_ shade of red...”

I eyed the blighter squarely.

“Spock,” I said, “you are talking nonsense.”

“As you say, Captain.”

“Absolute drivel.”

“As you say, Captain.”

“Unnecessarily bitchy, is what you are being, Spock.”

“As you say, Captain.”

“As you say, Captain --  Er, I mean, as you were, Spock. That will be all. Thanks for the book.” I said, haughtily.

And then I downed the rest of my coffee and went off in search of some less aggravating distractions.


	3. Moody Boys Who Can't Dress For The Weather

Biffing around in the ornamental garden, kicking rocks and and sniffing at some interestingly odorous silver roses, a less aggravating distraction soon popped up it’s candy-apple head and sauntered over to me swathed in furs, knee high boots, and a rather tight dress. 

“Jim, darling, what are you doing mooning about out here like a little lost dog? Aren’t you cold?”

“Ah, Dridie! Hallo. Yes, it is a bit brisk, isn’t it?” I said. “Why is that? I thought Risa was kept perpetually temperate?”

“Usually, yes, but mother put together a petition for snow on Earth-Date 25/12 - she is so enamoured with Terran history, and after hearing that old song  _ White Christmas _ her mind was rather made up.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Pretty neat though, don’t you think? Really gives a person a shot of the Yuletide Spirit, as old-timey Earthers would say.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose it does.”

Conversation sort of petered out a bit from there, and we walked arm in arm in companionable silence for a short while, self interjecting occasionally with some pithy observations  _ in res _ the local flora, as Dridie smiled benevolently.

“Honey, stop talking about the flowers for a sec, it is a terrible bore. Why don’t you tell me why you are out here all by yourself, instead of off with your Vulcan friend? I passed him in the hallway earlier and he looked awful peeved. What did you do, you sweet little fathead?”

Unexpected segue, I must admit. But, if there is one thing Jim Kirk is an expert at, it’s rolling with any and all punches thrown his way, with a finesse almost swanlike in its grace.

“Oh, I, well, I mean, that is to say, what?”

“What’s going on with you and your Vulcan?”

“Oh, that? Oh, nothing, nothing.”

She gazed down at me with large and pleading eyes, and I felt my resolve weaken. I’ve never yet been able to say no to a pair of imploring coffee-coloured peepers asking something of me. After a brief internal struggle, I acquiesced and gave the girl what she wanted. 

“Well, you see, we had a bit of a change of plans on short-ish notice, and Spock’s taken it hard. The iron has entered into his soul.”

“What plans?”

“We were originally going to take joint shore leave on Bajor for two weeks, you see. But when I received your mother’s kind invitation, I felt I couldn’t turn it down, and so I _ may _ have suggested we scrap the Bajor binge and sort of hop on over here for leave, instead.” I said, kicking apathetically at an ornamental frog.  “But it seems that Spock was rather more looking forward to seeing the monasteries and museums than I had credited, and now I can’t get him to see reason and rally round in the holiday spirit.”

“Jimmy dear, you are a clueless little dolt, aren’t you? Hugh said you were as dense as you were pretty, but Hugh talks a great deal of rot and I’ve learned to turn a deaf ear to half of everything he says. And yet here you are, loitering around my back garden by yourself, when you could be off on a gorgeous Bajoran retreat with your devoted, enigmatic Vulcan. Whatever were you thinking of, my dearest little rabbit?”

I was about to open my mouth to protest, when I had the unpleasant experience of stumbling across a snake.

“Oh. You.”

“Digby.”

“Kirk.”

“Hrm.”

“Tchah.”

Brutal, I know. Sometimes a man is unable to restrain his baser, more aggressive tendencies, and exchanges like this ensue. Loathsome thing, but there you have it.

“Hugh, love,” Dridie said, softening the tense atmosphere brought about by our bitter exchange, ”now what are _ you  _ doing wandering around out here all by yourself?  And without a jacket! Why is my garden filled with moody boys who can’t dress for the weather? Is this part of some Christmas tradition I don’t know about? Darling, are you not just freezing?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Some people shrink from a stout breeze, but I rather enjoy the cold. Bracing, I call it.” 

“If you can call this cold.” I said. “I once got stranded planetside in temperatures in the sub 30s celsius wearing only my dress uniform. But I guess this weather could be seen as a little chilly by someone used to more comfortable surroundings.”

“I suppose my body temperature is still adapting. You see, I’ve just returned from a 6 month assignment on Vulcan. I was hand-picked by the Federation embassy to be one of the lead Starfleet representatives on a joint Vulcan-Terran project situated in the S’Laaran deserts. You might have read about us, we’ve been featured in all of the most prestigious journals.”

“Oh? Have you had chance to meet High Chancellor T’Pau? Charming woman. I had the pleasure of meeting her at a private event earlier this year. Oh, but she doesn’t often meet with Federation representatives, does she? Only exceptional people, under exceptional circumstances. So perhaps you haven’t had the opportunity.”

“Ah! Yes, I heard about that little escapade of yours, and I have to say --”

“O-kay!” Dridie chirped in, sweetly. “ _ Fascinating  _ as all of this is, we should probably be heading indoors before the snow really begins to fall, don’t you think, boys? Oh, and Hugh, honey, I believe Emony was looking for you. She’ll be in the lower drawing room, do you think you could dash over and see her for me? You are a dear!”

I was rather pleased with how Dridie had ditched the cursed Digby so efficiently. I felt it to be almost self-evident that she desired a further _ tete-a-tete _ with yours truly. As Digby skulked off, she drew herself in closer to the old bod and smiled in that dazzling way she does.

“What was all that?”

“All what?”

“All that swaggering, sabre-rattling coquetry, of course! You absolutely must let me know the history between you two. Hugh’s been so vague and evasive about it. I’m sure you’ll be much more willing to entertain a girl, won’t you sweetie?”

“Oh, when you put it like that, I suppose… But I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details, you know. It’s all rather... Aren’t these flowers beautiful?”

“Jimmy. Please.”

I sighed indulgently and patted her hand.

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint a lady.”

“Then get on with it, dear.”

“Right. As you say.” I cleared my throat, hoping she might dash off in the way she sometimes does when some hot idea or other pops into her scarlet lemon, thus relieving me of the uncomfortable duty of spilling the whole damnable story twice within the hour. No such luck.

“In all honesty, Dridie, Hugh’s presence was in fact one of two factors that swung my decision to scratch the Bajor trip and pick up here instead.”

“Good god, I hope you aren’t serious?”

“I absolutely am!”

“No wonder your Vulcan is so put out! I’m surprised he didn’t clock you one, but that’s that famed Vulcan restraint I suppose. I almost feel inclined to smack you on his behalf, you idiotic teddybear.”

“Look here, that’s a bit uncalled for. A man must have the right to enact righteous vengeance when wronged. If a fellow can get away with whatsoever he pleases without anyone else ever making sure his crimes are dragged into the light of day, well, what kind of society would we be propagating then? I ask you!”

“You mean you are here because you are  _ angry _ at Hugh?”

“Of course!”

“Oh, well that changes matters a little.”

“That’s what I thought. Spock didn’t seem to agree. I wish he could be as sympathetic as you, Dridie.”

“I don’t know that you have any right to his sympathy, you clueless brick.” She said, squeezing my arm reassuringly. “So, Spock is mad at you because you cancelled your little getaway, and you cancelled your little getaway so that you could come here, because Hugh is here, and you are mad at Hugh? Have I followed correctly so far?”

“Skipping over a few details here and there, of course, but those are the general circs, yes.”

“Someone needs to teach you how to better handle your men, you cloth-brained baa-lamb.”

“I’m not entirely sure I like your tone, Dridie…”

“Oh hush, hush. Now, you just go right on ahead and tell me all about all of it, and we’ll see if we can’t find some clever way to fix it all back up again, hm?”


	4. A Juicy Scheme

It isn’t often that I find myself able to prove Spock in the wrong, but by dinner-time that night, I was in a position to do so, and I did it without delay.

“Touching on that matter we were touching on, Spock”, I said, coming in from the shower with a towel wrapped around my waist, and tackling him as he fiddled distractedly with the chess board, “I should be glad if you would give me your careful attention for a moment. I warn you that what I am about to say is going to make you look pretty illogical.”

“Indeed, Captain?”

“Yes, Spock. Pretty damned illogical it’s going to make you look. It may lead you to be rather more careful in the future about broadcasting these estimates of yours of people’s characters. This morning, if I remember rightly, you stated that Dridie Vikjan was volatile, frivolous, and lacking in seriousness. Am I correct?”

“Quite correct, Captain.”

“Then what I have to tell you may cause you to alter that opinion. I went for a walk with Dridie this afternoon, and as we walked, I told her all about that snake Hugh Digby, and my great desire to enact justice upon him. She hung upon my words, Spock, and was full of sympathetic indignation on my behalf.”

“Indeed, Captain?”

“Dripping with it. And that’s not all. Almost before I had finished, she was suggesting the ripest, most wonderful, brainiest scheme for exacting righteous vengeance on that lowlife.”

“Most gratifying, Captain.”

“Gratifying is the word. It appears that at the girls’ school where Dridie was educated in her youth on Trill, Spock, it used to become necessary from time to time for the right-thinking element of the community to slip it to the more dodgy lot. Do you know what they did, Spock?”

“Negative, Captain.

“They took a long stick and - now follow me closely here, Spock - they tied a close-range scanner to the end of it. Then, in the dead of night, they would sneak  into the party of the second part’s bedroom, and would locate and remote scan her personal PADD for keywords containing evidence of all of her lowest schemes, and cheats, and baser tendencies. At the Academy, one would occasionally heave a jug of cold water over another bloke’s head during his sleep, and in his confused state question him about his accused misdeeds - not that I was ever involved in such activities, of course, but you do hear about them. But the chaps at the Academy never thought of obtaining the same result in this particularly neat and scientific manner. 

Well, Spock, this is the scheme which Dridie suggested I should work on Digby! And yet, this is the woman you call frivolous and lacking in seriousness? Any person who can think up a plan like that is my idea of a helpmeet. I shall be glad, Spock, if by bedtime tonight you can help me procure a stout stick, and assist me in hacking a close-range scanner to search for the keywords ‘Finals’, ‘Ultra-violet’, ‘citric acid’, ‘flesh-coloured tape’, ‘magnifying lens’, and ‘Engineering 201’. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Captain, I -”

I raised my hand.

“Spock,” I said, “Not another word. Stick, one, and scanner, close range, programmed, good, without fail, in this room, at eleven-thirty tonight.”

“As you say, Captain.”

“And have you any idea where Digby’s room is?”

“I could make enquiries, sir.”

“Do so, Spock.”

Somehow it was only a matter of minutes before he was back with the necessary informash. I’m not sure how Spock is always able to give me what I need in such a speedy fashion, but there you have it. Some things are best not to question.

“Lieutenant Digby is established in the Tiger Room, Captain.”

“Where’s that?”

“The second door on the floor above this, Captain.”

“Good work, Spock. Let justice commence!”


	5. Asdhgdfsdkrfjsuhhnnhhhh

**** The more I thought about this plan, the plan that my sense of duty and good citizenship had thrust upon me, the better it seemed to be. I am not a vindictive or petty man, but I felt, as anybody should feel in my place, that if fellows like Hugh Digby are allowed to get away with it, the whole fabric of Society and Civilisation would shatter into pieces. Even the Klingons abide by a Code of Honour. It would be letting down the side to do anything less.

That being said, the task to which I had set myself wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, as it involved sitting up until very late in the night after a pretty busy day and not an inconsiderable amount of alcohol consumption. But I didn’t retreat. I did not falter. I am a Starfleet Captain, after all.

As it was Christmas Eve, there was, as I had expected, a good deal of revelry and what have you. First, the local Risan entertainers surged round and sang carols outside the front door, and then somebody suggested a dance, and after that we hung around chatting about this and that, and drinking this and that, and so it wasn’t until past one that I even got back to my room. Allowing for everything, it didn’t seem that it was going to be safe to start my little expedition till half-past two at the earliest: and I’m bound to say that it was only the utmost resolution that kept me from snuggling into the sheets and calling it a day. I’m not much of a kid for late hours, these days.

By half-past two, everything appeared to be quiet. I roused myself, grabbed the old stick-and-scanner, and headed off along the corridor. And presently, pausing outside the Tiger Room, I turned the handle, found the door wasn’t locked, and went in.

I suppose a burglar - I mean a real professional who works at the job six nights a week all the year round - gets so that finding himself standing in the dark in somebody else’s bedroom means absolutely nothing to him. But for a bird like me, who has very little previous experience with being in a chap’s room in the middle of the night - at least without his knowledge anyway - there’s a lot to be said in favour of washing the whole thing out, closing the door gently, and running back off to your own bed again. I found myself beginning to wonder if Spock wasn’t on the money about this being a foolish, frivolous idea best scrapped. It was only by summoning up all of my Kirkian resolve, and reminding myself that if I let this opportunity slip another might never occur, that I managed to stick out what you might call the initial minute of the endeavour. Then the weakness passed, and James Tiberius Kirk was himself again.

At first when I snuck in, the room had seemed pitch black, but after a while things my eyes slowly began to adjust.The curtains weren’t quite drawn over the window, and I could see a bit of the snow-covered garden and fields beyond. The bed was under the window, wedged between the wall and a low-standing bedside table, and nothing stood between me and the door, and the bed and the sleeping form therein.

They only thing left was the sort of tricky problem of locating the PADD. Dridie had told me that Digby slept with it under his pillow, and, indeed, I felt I could see the smallest sliver of silver poking out from under the right ear.

I was reassured at this point by a snore from the direction of the pillows. Logic suggested to me that a bloke who could snore like that wasn’t going to wake up for no good reason. I edged forward and inched the stick gingerly towards the top of the bed. A moment later, I had rested the scanner near enough to the PADD to begin the scanning. The scanner needed a few minutes to do its work; first to hack into the protected PADD, and then to search through all of the keywords it had been programmed to look for. All I had to do was wait. 

Suddenly, there was a crash that sent my spine shooting up through the top of my head. Instinctually I raised my arm in a defensive maneuver. Unfortunately, this was the same arm holding the stick. In the process I somehow managed to swing the stick around and slug it squarely at a vase of flowers positioned precariously on the bedside table. As the contents of the bed sat up like a jack-in-the box, the flowers from the vase leaped out of their amphora and into the no longer sleeping figure’s lap, whilst the damned thing itself tottered menacingly for a few milliseconds before falling right-side-up onto one of the pillows. Capping it all off, the now very much awake figure felt it as good a time as any to comment:

“WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!”

It just goes to show how your most careful strategic moves can be the very ones that scupper your campaign. In order to facilitate the hasty retreat according to plan, I had left the door open. Logical, no? Unfortunately the damned thing must have caught a gust from the window, and had slammed like a bomb.

However, I wasn’t particularly concerned with the ins and outs of all this at present, having other things to occupy my mind. What was disturbing me the most was the discovery that, whoever else the bloke in the bed might be, he was not Hugh Digby. 

Digby has one of those smooth, buttery voices that always sound as though they are trying to sell you a used shuttlecraft. This one was more like something between a warp nacelle firing off and a Drakoulias calling for breakfast after being on a diet for a day or two. It was the sort of nasty, rasping voice you would hear shouting “ _ Qu’ StaH nuq jay’!? LupDujHomwlj luteb gharghmey!!!! _ ” in one of the rougher types of bars on one of the rougher types of space station, directly preceding a brawl. Among the qualities it lacked were kindliness, suavity, and that sort of dove-like cooing note which makes a man feel he has found a friend.

I did not linger. Getting swiftly off the mark, I dived for the door-handle and was off and away, slamming the door behind me. I may be a chump in many ways, as Doctor Mccoy will freely attest, but I know when and when not to be among those present.

And I was just about to do the stretch of the corridor leading to the stairs in a split second under the record time for the course, when something brought me up with a sudden jerk. One moment, I was all dash and fire and speed; the next, an irresistible force had checked me in my stride and was holding me straining at the leash, as it were.

You know, sometimes it seems to me as if fate were going out of her way to such an extent to screw you that you seriously begin to wonder whether it’s worth while continuing to struggle. 

The night being on the colder side of comfortable, courtesy of Isi Vikjan and Bing Crosby, I had felt it necessary to wear a dressing gown for the duration of this little escapade. The tail of this stupid garment had somehow gotten caught in the door and pipped me at the eleventh hour.

The next moment the door had opened, light streaming through, and the bloke with The Voice had grabbed me by the arm.

It was Commodore Robert Wesley.

The next thing that happened was a bit of a lull in the proceedings. For about three and a quarter seconds, or possibly more (Spock would know), we just stood there, drinking each other in, so to speak, the old boy still attached with bloodworm-like grip to my elbow. If I hadn’t been in a plaid dressing gown and he in pink pajamas with a blue stripe, and if he hadn’t been glaring quite so much like he’d just intercepted a would-be assassin, the tableau would have looked rather like one of those advertisements you see in holozines, where the experienced elder is patting the young chap’s arm and saying to him “My lad, if you subscribe to the T’larr-Jones Correspondence School of Denebia, as I did, you may someday, like me, become the Third Assistant Vice President of the Tellarite Consolidated Tusk File and Eyebrow Combing Corporation.”

“You!” said Commodore Wesley, finally. 

By rights, I suppose, at this point I probably should have said something.  _ Anything _ . The best I could manage, however, was a sort of swallowing sound and a weak cough, and something that could have been “ _ Isn’t this a small world? _ ” or “ _ Ah, see, it’s a funny story _ ” or “ _ A sad hug from a duck, son _ ”, but was in reality closer to “ _ Asdhgdfsdkrfjsuhhnnhhhh _ ”. Even on ordinary social occasions when meeting this bloke as man to man and with a clear conscience, I could never be completely at my ease. And now the weight of those remembered words, “ _ Captain Dunsel _ ” sunk into my soul like a polished lirpa.

“Come in here,” he said, dragging me into his room. “We don’t want to wake the whole damned house.”

“Now,” he said, depositing me on the carpet and closing the door and apparently attempting to cause me to spontaneously combust through nothing but sheer strength of mind, “will you kindly explain to me the reasoning behind this latest assassination attempt?”

It seemed to me that a bright and charming smile might help the thing along, so I had a go at it.

“Don’t grin at me!” said my genial host. And I’m bound to admit that the ‘ _ bright and charming’  _ hadn’t come off quite as I had intended.

I pulled myself together with a strong effort.

“I am so sorry about all this,” I said in a hearty sort of voice. “The fact is, I thought you were Digby.”

“You thought I was Digby? Why should I be Digby?”

“What I’m driving at is, I thought this was his room.”

“Hugh and I changed rooms. I have a great dislike for sleeping on lower floors. I am nervous about intruders.”

For the first time since this interview had started, I braced up a bit. The injustice of the whole thing stirred me to such an extent that for a moment I lost that sense of being a Denebian Slime Devil in a circle of salt, which had been cramping my style up until now. I even went so far as to stare down this pink pyjama-ed prat with no small amount of open hostility. Just because he had this cowardly fear of nocturnal assassins, and this selfish preference for letting young Hugh run the risk of being butchered in bed instead of himself,  my nice-reasoned plans had been wrecked. I gave him a Look. 

“I should have thought that your Vulcan would have informed you,” said Commodore Wesley, “that we contemplated making this change. I met him shortly before lunch, and did ask him to tell you.”

I stepped back as if he had socked me square in the jaw. Yes, it is not too much to say that I was positively staggered. This extraordinary statement had taken me amidships without any preparation, and it floored me. That Spock had been aware all along that this lousy old fish would be the occupant of the room into which I was breaking and entering, and had let me rush headlong towards my doom without a word of warning was almost beyond belief. You might say I was aghast. Yes, absolutely aghast.

“You… You told Spock that you were going to be in this room?” I whimpered.

“I did. I was aware that you and Hugh were on terms of, ahem, intimacy, and I wished to spare myself the possibility of a visit from you. I confess that it never occurred to me that such a visit was to be anticipated at three o’clock in the morning. What the devil do you mean,” he barked, suddenly hotting up, “by prowling about the house at this hour and throwing flowers at people. And what is that thing in your hand?” 

I looked down and found that I was still grasping the stick. I can honestly swear upon my position as a Starfleet Captain that, what with the maelstrom of emotions into which his revelation about Spock had cast me, the discovery came as an absolute surprise.

“This?” I said. “Oh, yes.”

“What do you mean ‘Oh yes’? What is it?”

“Well, it’s a long story --”

“We have the entire night before us!”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Right ho, then. I ask you to picture me: young, idealistic, full of vigour and youthful enthusiasm, perfectly motivated and inoffensive, studying with all my might to pass the Academy exams with flying colours, a walking stack of books with legs, and --”

I broke off. I could tell that the man wasn’t listening. He was gazing in a dazed sort of way at the bed, from which there had now begun to  drip onto the carpet a series of drops.

“What in the--”

“-- walking stack of books with legs, grade A student, captain of the rowing team --”

I broke off again. His eye had fallen to the vase, which had somehow managed to roll under the coverlet and begin depositing the somewhat stagnant water once used to prolong the life of its floral occupants, onto the mattress and thereby contributing to the shortening of mine.

“Did you do this?” he said in a low, strangled sort of voice.

“Er -- yes. As a matter of fact, it was a complete accident and I was just about to explain --”

“And Admiral Maki tried to persuade me that you were a brilliant young Captain, and not a psychopathic homicidal maniac!”

“I’m not! Absolutely not. If you’ll just let me explain.”

“I will do nothing of the kind.”

“It all began --”

“SILENCE!”

“Right.”

He began some deep-breathing techniques not dissimilar to those popular with Spock’s dad Sarek whenever I pop by for a visit.

“My bed. Is drenched.”

“What happened was --”

“Shut up! You wretched, miserable idiot!” he said, “Would you be so kind as to inform me which bedroom you are supposed to be occupying?”

“It’s on the floor below. The Bear Room.”

“Thank you. I am sure I will be able to find it”

“What? Why?”

He glared.

“I propose,” he said, “to pass the remainder of the night in your room where, I presume, there is a bed in a condition to be slept in. You may bestow yourself as comfortably as you can here. I will wish you a goodnight.”

And with that he buzzed off, leaving me swaying in the aftermath.


	6. Good Morning, Captain, Merry Christmas

If nothing else, we Starfleet Captains are campaigners. We can take the rough with the smooth. But to say that I liked the prospect now before me would be be standing in the way of truth. One glance at the bed told me that any idea of sleeping there was out of the question. An Aldebran Shellmouth might have done it, but not James T. Kirk. After a bit of a look around, I decided that the best chance of getting any sort of sleep was to doss as well as I could in the armchair. I pinched a couple of pillows off the bed, shoved the hearth-rug over my knees, and sat down and started counting sehlats.

It wasn’t any good. My mind was racing far too much to even approach the vicinity of sleep. The overwhelming revelations of the depths of Spock’s treachery kept coming back to haunt me every time I got close to dropping off; and, what’s more, the night seemed to get colder and colder the longer it wore on. I was just wondering if I would ever be able to sleep again in this world when a voice at my elbow said “Good morning, Captain” and I sat up with a jerk.

I could have sworn I hadn’t so much as closed my eyes for even a minute, but apparently I had, as the curtains were drawn back and daylight was flooding in through the window, and there, in all his pristine glory, was Spock, standing beside me, holding out a cup of coffee.

“Merry Christmas, Captain.”

I reached out weakly and took the cup from his hands. I swallowed a mouthful or two, and soon felt a little better. I was aching in every inch, and my head felt like Romulans were firing on it, but I was now able to think a little more clearly. I fixed the Vulcan with a bitter Look and prepared to let him have it.

“Merry Christmas?” I said. “Merry goddamned Christmas, he says! Perhaps on Vulcan you have a pretty damned different definition of ‘merry’, because ‘merry’ this is decidedly not. And if, moreover, you think for half a second that it is going to be at all merry for you, then you are as illogical as you are treacherous!” I said, taking another half-oz of coffee and speaking in a cold, measured voice. “I have only one question for you, Spock. Did you, or did you not, know that Commodore Robert Wesley would be sleeping in this room last night?”

“I did, Captain.”

“You admit it!”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And yet you didn’t tell me!?”

“No, Captain. I thought it would be more judicious not to do so.”

“Spock, I --” My voice cracked.

“If you will allow me to explain, Captain.”

“Please!"

“I was aware that my silence might lead to something in the nature of an unexpected altercation --”

“You were a good guesser,” I said, chucking back more coffee with a sardonic air.

“But it seemed to me, Captain, that the consequences of such an altercation would secure the most efficient and logical means to desired ends.”

I opened my mouth to lay into him some more, but he trekked on.

“I thought that, possibly, upon reflection, Captain, your views being as they are, you would prefer your relations with Commodore Robert Wesley to be distant rather than cordial.”

“My views? What do you mean, ‘my views’?”

“As regards promotion to the rank of commodore and assignation to command of a starbase, sir.”

A wave of ice seemed to flood my veins, and I felt myself grow pale. Spock had opened up a new line of thought. I suddenly saw what he was driving at, and realised all in a flash that I had been woefully mistaken in my mistrust. All the while I had supposed that Spock had been screwing me over, when he had really been preventing others from screwing me. 

It was like one of those stories I used to read as a kid, about the traveller going along on a dark night and his dog grabs him by the leg of his trousers and he says “Down, sir! What are you doing, Fluffy?” and the dog hangs on and he gets rather hot under the collar and curses a bit but the dog won’t let him go and then suddenly the moon shines and he finds he’s been standing on the edge of a precipice and one more step would have been - well, anyway, you get the idea. Spock had once again pulled me back from the precipice, and here I was, giving him grief for it. 

It’s perfectly amazing how a person can drop their guard and become utterly oblivious to the threats closing in on them. I can swear down to you right now that it never struck me until that precise moment that Commodore Wesley could have been scheming to take me away from my ship and have me dumped on some dismal starbase in the name of unprecedentedly young career advancement and renewed friendship.  Again.

“My god, Spock!” I said, swaying slightly in my seat.

“Indeed, Captain.”

“You think there was a risk?”

“A very grave risk.”

A disturbing thought struck me.

“But, Spock, once he calms down and re-evaluates events in the very cold light of day, won’t Bob have gotten to grips with the fact that it was young Digby that I was after, and that sneaking into his room in the dead of night was just one of those things that occur when the Yuletide Spirit is high -- one of those things that have to be overlooked and taken with an indulgent smile and a fatherly shake of the head? I mean to say, Young Blood and all that sort of thing? What I mean is, he’ll realise that I wasn’t trying to assassinate him, and then all of your good work will have been wasted!”

“No, Captain, I believe not. That might possibly have been the Commodore’s first reaction, had it not been for the second incident.”

“The second incident?”

“During the night, while Commodore Wesley was occupying your bed, somebody entered the room in an attempt to scan the PADD in your bedside table, using the method colloquially termed ‘scanner-on-a-stick’.”

I shook my head, bemused.

“What? Did I walk in my sleep?”

“No, Captain. It was Lieutenant Digby. He entered the lower drawing room this morning  appearing quite pleased with himself, and announced that he was about to share a recording which was, and I quote, ‘the best christmas gift he ever got me’. He greeted me, and enquired as to how you slept.”

“My god, Spock. What an amazing coincidence!”

“Captain?”

“What are the odds of Digby getting exactly the same idea as I did? Or, rather, I guess, as Dridie did. You don’t think Digby also attended a Trill girl’s school and never mentioned it, do you?”

“Unlikely, Captain… It appears that Lieutenant Digby received the suggestion from the young lady.”

“From Dridie?”

“Indeed.”

“You mean to say that, after she had put me up to the scheme of stealing Digby’s personal log, she went away and gave Digby the idea of stealing mine?”

“So it would seem. Radere Vikjan is a woman with a very particular sense of humor.”

I leaned back in the chair, pretty well stunned. When I thought of how near I had come to offering the heart and hand to this woman - this woman evidently capable of double crossing a strong man’s honest love in such a flippant and mercurial manner... I shivered at the thought.

“Are you cold, Captain?”

“No Spock. Just shuddering.”

“These events would not have been surprising, Captain, had one followed the view which I put forward yesterday to its logical conclusion. Ms Vikjan, though in many respects a charming young lady -”

I raised my hands in a gesture both defensive and submissive. I was a defeated man, and felt no shame in admitting it.

“Say no more, Spock.”  I replied. “You were quite right, as usual. Love, as they say, is fleeting. And has, indeed, fled.”

"Very good, Captain."

I brooded for a few moments, before looking back up at Spock.

“Say, Spock, you told me that Digby’s aim was in hacking my personal log stored on a PADD in the drawer of the bed-side table?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t have a PADD in the drawer of the bedside table. I didn’t even bring my PADD with me, I left it on the shuttlecraft.”

“As I am aware, sir.”

“But you said that Digby was all bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning, no doubt filled with malicious glee at showing my personal diary to all and sundry over the breakfast kippers?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Do you have any explanation to offer for this, Spock?”

“I do, Captain. Upon discovering Ms Vikjan’s plans, I deposited into the bedside table of the Bear Room a PADD containing a recording I had taken the previous evening, comprising Lieutenant Digby informing Ms Vikjan of the means by which he was able to cheat on his Academy exams without getting caught, whilst your attempts at defrauding the Kobayashi Maru exam were discovered. Sir.”

I sat back in the armchair again, staggered for the second time this morning. Or was it the third? I was starting to lose count of all of these staggerings.

“You mean to say, Spock, that all this time, all these  _ years _ I have been trying in vain to secure evidence of Digby’s crimes... and all the while he has been running around the galaxy spilling all to every pretty face he encounters?”

“So it would appear, sir.” 

“Good god. It’s enough to make a man want to give up on everything, Spock.” I said, taking another sip of my coffee. “But there is still one thing I don’t understand.”

“Captain?”

“If Digby was successful in retrieving this recording, and is about to play it to the gathering downstairs, this means he must surely have completed his task without waking the slumberinh Wesley, who will no doubt by now be relatively well-rested and in a more forgiving and benevolent mood. So how has this furthered my cause  _ in res _ of not being promoted?”

“I took the liberty, sir, of attaching a recording of yourself to the beginning of the tape, in order that --”

I’m not certain what Spock had put in the coffee, but my brain was only now kicking up and starting to fire on all thrusters.

“ -- In order that,” I interjected, “Lieutenant Digby would not simply turn off the recording immediately upon hearing his own voice, instead of mine.”

“Precisely, Captain.” Spock said.

“Spock?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“You are a wonder.”

“Thank you, Captain."

“Although, Spock…” I said hesitatingly, “and I am a bit afraid to ask this: What recording of me did you happen to use?”

The man shifted uncomfortably on his feet. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a Vulcan shift uncomfortably on his feet, but it is a sight both compelling and terrifying. It provokes a sensation not dissimilar to watching a pitcher full of lemonade teeter on the edge of an unsteady picnic table. That is to say, you know something bad is about to happen, and you should probably do something about it, but a part of you can’t help but want to hang around a bit to see the crash.

“I believe the log I used was one made by yourself shortly after the M-5 incident, Captain.”

“The official report I submitted to Starfleet, you mean? Yes, yes I can picture the scene now. Good thinking Spock. That’d do the trick nicely. I laid out a pretty brisk complaint about old Bob Wesley’s conduct in that. Watertight, you might say. Brimming with carefully calculated phrasing and pertinent details and the like. Good work, Spock.”

Spock flinched, and it was then that I knew I was in much the same scenario as the frog who thought he was in amongst the usual tepid pond waters, only to soon find himself sat squarely in the rapidly heating soup. 

“In a manner of speaking, Captain... You _ did _ compose this report to send to Starfleet Command, but due to the  _ emotional _ nature of the contents, I deemed it prudent to delay in sending the report. You later provided Starfleet with a substantially more  _ restrained _ report, which is the one to which you have just alluded.

I paled once more.

“Good god, Spock.” I ran a hand across my face and tried to pull myself together.

“But why on earth did you have that handy at all, Spock?”

“It would seem that I neglected to delete the file, and... circumstances transpired which caused it to be stored in my own personal PADD.”

I hadn’t noticed that I had stood up out of the chair at some point during this exchange, but I evidently had done so as I now found myself in a position to get a rather close-up look at the finely chiseled features presently making every effort to avoid looking down at my own mug.

“Spock.” I said authoritatively, “You mean to tell me that Commodore Wesley is, at this moment in time, listening to me delineate, with pinpoint precision, a compendium of his worst defects?” 

“I believe the demonstration of the recordings concluded some nine or ten minutes ago --.”

I ploughed ahead, oblivious. 

“He is listening to me outline the general and specific instances of his unique personal ineptitudes as displayed during the M-5 fiasco?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“He is listening to me detail, and I do mean  _ detail _ , the flaws of his judgement, his character, and his intellect, both in this specific incident and throughout his career?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“You are telling me, Spock, that Commodore Robert Wesley is, right now, listening to me state, with heated and channelled passion, that he is an overbearing, idiotic, undiplomatic, swaggering, illogical, sorry excuse for a human being with questionable taste in fashion, women, and cologne, and who should never have been allowed to step foot on a starship, let alone command one?”

“That, I believe, would stand as an adequate synopsis.”

I was about to let loose on the chap once again, when my mind reeled back to the words I had missed in my excitement.

“Wait… They finished listening to the recording ten minutes ago?”

“Eleven minutes and thirty seven seconds now, Captain.”

“Eleven minutes and… You’ve seen Wesley since?”

“I have.”

“How did he seem?”

“Somewhat agitated.”

“Agitated?”

“Rather emotional. Lady Vikjan was trying to calm him with chamomile tea and a mince pie. He expressed a strong desire to ‘ _ rip your arms out of their sockets and beat you about the head with them _ ’, sir.”

“Understandable, given the circs. Recommendations, Spock?”

“If you were to climb out of the window as soon as you are dressed, Captain, it would be possible for you to make your way across the field and reach our shuttlecraft. I can collect your personal effects and rendezvous with you back on the Enterprise at a later time.”

“But the Enterprise, Spock? Surely that’s the first place Wesley will look for me!”

“A logical assumption, Captain.”

“Well, then?!”

He looked off into the distance for a moment with a fathomless eye as I clutched at his lapels.

“The most logical plan in this instance would be for you to retreat to a place where you would be difficult to contact, and where few would expect you to be. There are a limited number of locations meeting these criteria within a days reach of here, and less still which are also passably hospitable.”

“Spock!”

“However, as we already have accomodation reserved at the monastery in Ashalla, Bajor offers itself as the most logical destination.”

“But you cancelled the booking, Spock. Those reservations have to be made months in advance!”

“No, sir.”

“I thought you had?”

“No.”

“I did ask you to.”

“Yes, Captain. It was remiss of me. I have been quite busy with equipment re-calibration.”

“Oh? Well, alright Spock. Bajor it is, then… It’s really quite lucky, as things turned out, that you forgot to cancel that booking, isn’t it?

“I do not believe in luck, Captain.  If would you let go of my shirt, I will return to your room and retrieve your bags.”

“Then out the window, across the field, and off for two weeks in Bajor, eh Spock?”

“Precisely.”

“Just you, me, and the Bajoran countryside... I have to say, Spock, all things considered, this could have gone a whole lot worse, and I owe it all to you.” I smoothed the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to buff out the creases my clinging had put in the fine fabric.

“Spock, have I ever told you that you are a wonder?”

“You may have spoken words to that effect, Captain.”

“A marvel?”

“Possibly.”

“A singular genius?”

“I couldn’t say, Captain.”

“Have I ever said that you are the best first officer a man could ever wish for?”

“On several occasions.”

“And the best friend?”

“I -- ”

“And have I been remiss in failing to mention that you are, at present, standing underneath a rather fascinating sprig of mistletoe?”

“Captain, I --  _ Jim _ ?”

A loud crash from downstairs, followed by a Klingon-ish type of voice bellowing  my name and other obscenities halted me in mid-flow just as I was about to get properly mawkish about the whole thing.

“Jim, I believe efficiency would be expedient in the present moment --”

“I’m way ahead of you”, I said, one leg already out of the window, “I’ll meet you at the shuttlecraft! Oh, and Spock?”

“Yes, Jim?”

“Merry Christmas!”


End file.
